


Dancing on the Edge

by QueSeraAwesome



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Anal Sex, Biting, Bondage, Established Relationship, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Painplay, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Pushing and checking boundaries, RVB Kinkmas in July, Set on Chorus between season 12 and 13, Stress Relief, Testing limits
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-02
Updated: 2017-09-02
Packaged: 2018-12-23 01:58:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11979705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueSeraAwesome/pseuds/QueSeraAwesome
Summary: Sometimes there's a thin line between pain and pleasure. Tucker's found that when it comes to wrecking Wash, it's best to ride the edge.





	Dancing on the Edge

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ZaliaChimera](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZaliaChimera/gifts).



> super, super, super late giftfic for RVB Kinkmas in July for ZaliaChimera, who is amazing and deserved a more on-time gift. 
> 
> Please note this fic contains consensual dom/sub elements, two people in an existing relationship where they've talked about boundaries and stuff before, so they don't belabor a lot of points here. This fic also contains the discussed use of a "wait" or "pause" type of safeword that is different from a complete stop safe word. Let me know if you have any questions about the fic or if you think I've missed an important tag.

Wash is seriously considering taking off his helmet to rip his own hair out in frustration when he gets the ping of the private message. Part of him grumbles in annoyance— he needs every spare shred of attention he has for herding the overexcited teenage cats he’s training right now. Not that they’re actually teenagers. But they _are_ young, impossibly young, younger than Wash ever remembers being, he thinks as he screams at Reyes and O’Donnell to stop having _lightsaber battles_ with the pugil sticks and to run the damn drill they’re supposed to be practicing. There’s just something about getting this many of them together at a time that dials the maturity levels down to shoe-size. And that’s without even considering the reduced time spent individually with each private. Whoever thought increasing training sessions to forty privates at a time has never actually tried it, Wash is convinced.

He folds his arms into the most disapproving cross he can before he opens the message, hopes the sight of him immobile, surveying the room, can keep them behaving long enough for him to read a 140 character limit message on his HUD.

He catches a flash of aqua out of the corner of his eye just as he opens it, Tucker leaning against the open doorway watching. He doesn’t say anything or wave, just watches, posture deliberately easy as he lounges against the doorframe. Sure enough, the message’s from him.

TCKR: got time for a little one on one later?

Wash exhales slowly, controlled, careful not to react any way anyone could see. They’re not exactly a secret, as if half the base betting on the date of their first PDA could ever allow them the luxury of secrecy. But some things are more private than others. This is their language, for when they aren’t playing around, for things that matter if someone decides to go through their COM logs later. Tucker isn’t talking about a spar, or a game of checkers, or hanging out on the roof, just the two of them. He isn’t surveying the room either now, Wash can tell, can feel Tucker’s eyes on him like a physical touch. Heat licks up his spine, spreading through before smoldering low in his stomach like a coal.

WSH: I’m game.

Tucker doesn’t nod, or acknowledge he’s gotten the message in any way, just ducks out of the gym and out of sight.

Wash goes back to correcting the privates’ forms, to nodding approvingly at well-executed blocks and parries, to assigning laps because if he sees one more person pull the pugil-stick-as-erection gag, he’s going to try to shove the entire thing down the offender’s throat _double laps, Private Bitters,_ _just for that comment_ , shit, he should have known better than that.

*

The rest of the day is utterly normal. Finish training his group of troops, meeting with Carolina, another two batches of troops, shower, meal, cup of shitty coffee, meeting with Kimball and Doyle, and done for the day.

When he gets to his room, Tucker is already there. Just like he expected.

Tucker is lounging on the bed, shirtless and in a pair of loose pants, spread out, his arms up behind his head. He’s gazing up at the ceiling, patient, still, and waiting for him.  The dim light coming through the blinds illuminates him gently, tracing the planes of his body, the cuts of muscle and cheekbone. He looks like something out of a steamy magazine, maybe the set-up image in some sort of softcore porn, and of course it’s on purpose, of course it’s ridiculous, but Wash drinks the sight of him in anyway.

He closes the door with a quiet click and Tucker’s gaze flicks to him.

All the sound seems to suck out of the room, the ambient noise of military base and housing unit fading away. Something heavier, more comfortable, more insistent, takes its place. There’s a charge humming in Wash’s veins, anticipation spreading through his blood like a drug, like a call, all afternoon. He can feel the call answered, thrumming in harmony, in Tucker’s eyes on his across the room.

The corner of Tucker’s mouth tilts up in a welcoming smile. Not the big cheesy thing he throws at Wash and around like candy at anyone in his good graces. This smile is small, and private, and all theirs. Just like this space.

‘Hey, Wash.”

Wash swallows, tongue thick in his mouth.

“Tucker.”

Tucker’s gaze roves over him. His body reacts to something in his gaze without consulting any of his higher brain functions, coming to attention, straightening as if a line were being drawn up straight from his heels, up his spine and out through the top of his head to the sky; and even as it does he feels something in his neck go loose and easy, some inner clench he barely notices most days go pliant. Tucker sits up, sliding closer to the edge of the bed to throw his calves over the side.  He beckons Wash closer with a flick of his fingers. Wash lets the gravity of him pull him forward and across the room to stand between his spread legs. He ducks his head into Tucker’s palm when his hand comes up to cup his jaw.

Tucker kisses him. Wash gratefully kisses him back and feels the day’s tension start to seep out of him.

“Been thinking about this all day,” Tucker murmurs against his lips. His hand skims up his arm, his shoulder, his neck, to settle in his hair. Wash doesn’t know which of them he’s referring to with that statement; either way it’s true.

Tucker tilts his head to deepen the kiss and Wash groans against his mouth. He crawls up and into Tucker’s lap, kissing him all the while. Tucker’s hands slide around his waist and slip up his shirt, tracing the muscles of his back. Tucker works his shirt up and off him before reeling him back in, pressed together chest to chest. Wash lets himself sink into the luxury of skin against skin. He doesn’t think he’ll ever think of it as anything but a luxury.

Too soon, Tucker taps his thigh, pulls away.

“Lemme up, gotta get something.”

He rolls off, watches as Tucker hops up, going for a box on the floor near the door.

“Close those eyes,” he says over his shoulder, bending to pick it up. A hint of that velvet-and-steel tone he uses when he expects his words to be obeyed threads into his voice. “Had a plan for this brewing all day. Want it to be a surprise.”

Wash obligingly closes them, the buzz of anticipation rising inside him again. He hears Tucker fumbling with something, dropping the box back to the floor, his footsteps crossing the floor. He knows without looking when Tucker is back in front of him, some hint of body heat, of his smell, some sixth sense telling him he’s near.

He isn’t surprised when Tucker’s grip lands on his wrist, the motions of him wrapping a cuff around and securing it familiar to both of them. He frowns. The weight of the cuffs is all wrong, not nearly heavy enough. They’re soft and almost a little scratchy around the edges? His confusion must show on his face, because Tucker snorts.

“Open your eyes, Wash.”

He looks down immediately. White lace encloses each wrist, too tight to slip out of, but sitting gentle against his skin. A long loop of lace runs through the D-rings on each cuff, knotted to connect them together and trailing down onto the bed. The cuffs are… delicate. Flimsy. There’s no way that within a minute of concentrated effort that he wouldn’t be able to get out of them. And that’s if he wanted to leave them intact.

People like you don’t wear things like that, some phantom part of his brain whispers. Pretty, delicate little things. In white lace, no less.

Wash is pretty much the opposite of everything white lace _means_.

He looks up at Tucker, unsure where this is going. Tucker smirks at him, eyes lit up with something burning and pleased as he leans down into Wash’s space, presses a possessive kiss to his lips. Wash’s eyes slip shut again.

“Wash,” he says, closing his hand over the knot holding his wrists together. His voice drops low, commanding. “ _Do not break these_.”

Wash’s throat goes dry. He nods, beginning to get the shape of this.

“I won’t.”

“Good.”

Tucker takes a deep breath as if to steady himself.

“Here’s how this is gonna go,” he says. That velvet-and-steel tone is back and strong in his voice. “I’m gonna push you. And keep pushing you. And the second, the moment it turns from being good, the moment it stops doing it for you or starts just being pain, you’re going to stop me.”

Wash blinks up at him, frowning.

“Tucker—“

“Got it?” Tucker presses.

His eyes are deadly serious, and Wash hesitates. This is new, not something they’ve done before, but he trusts Tucker. He’s trusted Tucker with more than this, and Tucker has trusted him as well. Tucker isn’t going to do anything to hurt him. This is the space where they can take risks together.  He nods.

“All right.”

“Traffic lights okay?” Tucker continues. “Yellow when it’s too much or if you need a break. Red and everything stops.”

Wash nods assent.

“Yeah. Yellow and red. Okay.”

Tucker cups his face in his palm again, searching his face. Wash lets the nerves, the uncertainty show, but he’s good. Tucker has a plan and he wants to try whatever this is.

“You’re going to stop me,” Tucker repeats. “When it reaches the limit. When it isn’t good anymore.”

He doesn’t say anything like “when it starts to hurt” or “when it gets painful.” He knows Wash well enough to know his masochistic tendencies pretty thoroughly, understands the sweet pleasure-pain blend of getting his hair pulled, his ass slapped, of _teeth,_ himself.

He isn’t really talking about anything they haven’t done before, nothing Wash hasn’t loved doing before. Just a different frame for it. Wash holds his gaze, ready.

Tucker must find whatever he was looking for his face because he nods, satisfied, and leans forward to kiss him quick and hungry.  

“I’m going to push you. You say when it’s too much,” he repeats. “You do that for me, and at the end of this you’re going to come so hard you’ll feel it all week.”

A shiver crosses over Wash’s shoulders. Tucker grins.

“Lie down.”

Wash does, and Tucker gets rid of his boots and pants, leaving Wash just in his shorts, before joining him, crawling up and over him. He stops once he’s straddling Wash just below his shoulders, pulls his arms up and over his head by the length of lace trailing from the cuffs. Wash watches transfixed as Tucker kisses each of his palms, a warm splash of sensation, before securing him to the bed frame. Tucker leaves him enough slack that he can maneuver a little, enough to turn over or to tug at the restraints, but not a lot.

Wash tests the hold gingerly, mindful of the fragile knit worked throughout the lace, the stress on fine threads. It holds, the cloth holding fast against his skin, against the bed’s frame, but he can feel the way the cuffs could tear, shred under too much pressure. He’ll need to be careful.

Tucker scoots backwards to perch on his hips, sits back on his ankles and just looks at him, eyes drinking him in like he’s something rare and delicious, like the sight of him is something he’s going to savor.

“Never get tired of that,” he says, grinning wide and slow. “Fuck, you look good. All tied up and waiting so good like that. So fucking _hot_.”

He runs a hand up Wash’s chest, up from shoulder, to neck, to jaw and back down again. Wash sighs under the touch, up and back down, and lets the white-noise buzz of anticipation build in the back of his mind.

Tucker leans forward and kisses him, all tongue and a slow-burning kind of hunger that always makes the world shrink down to them, the universe fading into the few points where they touch. Tuckers hands still just below his chest, the edges of his nails set against his skin, and then scratch, feather light, down his sides. Just enough to wake up the nerves, really. Wash hums into his mouth, encouragement to go harder, and Tucker complies, nails scratching and setting off flares of want that light him up all over inside like firecrackers viewed from far, far away. He shifts his legs, needing somewhere for that firecracker energy to go, and Tucker huffs a laugh, kisses down his jaw, his ear and back up. They continue like that for what feels like an eternity, the soft hot slide of Tucker’s lips and tongue in counterpoint to the ever-sharper bite of his nails against his sides, his abs, his back. He presses into it, into Tucker’s mouth, against his hands, against his everything, looking for more and less all at once as the sensations build. Tucker works a mark into his neck, nibbles up to the shell of his ear and whispers, voice rich with amusement, “Like that, Wash?”

It might as well as be rhetorical, but Wash is already starting to slip, his mind swimming in stimulation so he answers, “Feels good.” He licks his lips, trying to give himself a moment to catch his breath, “Keep going.”

Tucker leans forward, latching on to the other side of Wash’s neck with his teeth and Wash throws his head back to give him more room, lets himself just feel.  Lines of heat trailing after Tucker’s nails, burning up his self-control. Wash arches under him, into him, squirming helplessly. They’ve played rough before, they both _like_ it rough, but Tucker doesn’t usually take it this far with him, nails digging in harder and deeper with every pass. The scratches are superficial, don’t break the skin and will heal within a few days but with the constantly increasing pressure they feel like they’re going deeper, the sparks of sensation burrowing deep into his skin, inside of him, brighter and more intense, almost too intense to stand, too good to stand.

Until something snaps and then it’s just pain. It isn’t even that bad, he’s had worse, he can take it. But that isn’t the point this time, and he did say…

“Ah,” his first attempt at words fizzles out on an exhale, unsure if he wants it to be a hiss of pain, a moan, or even words at all. He tries again. “Ahh okay, so. Yellow.”

Tucker lets go immediately, gentle palms smoothing over the red lines in his skin. He finishes the mark on Wash’s jugular and then leans over to kiss him, hands cupping his jaw like something precious.

“Doing good,” he says, eyes so warm, so warm on Wash’s, just like the heat still radiating up from the scratches on his sides. “Keep going?”

Wash nods, straining up to meet Tucker’s lips hungrily when he bends to kiss him again. He doesn’t notice Tucker’s hands have strayed to his chest until he circles his nipple with a thumb. He keeps playing with them, gently twisting and rubbing while he kisses down his neck to his chest. He stops to suck a dark mark above his heart (and Wash’s stomach does swoop a little at that, does ache in a way totally different from the growing ache between his legs). He keeps playing with one nipple with one hand while he pays the other attention with his mouth, kissing and sucking until Wash is squirming underneath him, and then switching. Quick flicks of his tongue until they tighten to sensitive buds, send sparks shooting through him at every touch. The line of his teeth rasps over the nub and Wash gasps, arching into Tucker’s mouth as he switches sides and does it again. Tucker nips, quick and bright and then laves it with his tongue. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Tucker nips again and then wraps his lips around it, sucking hard, hard, too hard, and the pleasure goes spiky and wrong, “ _Fuck_ , fuck, Tucker, wait—”

But Tucker is already pulling off, dotting gentle kisses all over his chest while Wash tries to catch his breath.

“So, good,” he purrs, leaning up to kiss him again, tongue pressing insistently past his lips, fucking his mouth.

Wash moans into the kiss, the last eddies of the pain slithering away under the onslaught of Tucker’s tongue. He lets himself go boneless, sinking into the feeling, his nipples still screaming oversensitive in the background like twin stars. His cock is leaking in his shorts, a small wet patch spreading across the front. Tucker gives him a quick, teasing rub before stripping the shorts off, leaving him completely bare. He hooks a hand under Wash’s knee and spreads him wider, settling down between his legs with a soft kiss against the side of his knee before getting to work, same as before.

He starts gentler here, knows Wash’s inner thighs have always stayed sensitive even when other areas of his body acclimated and hardened to the daily physical abuse of his career and his life. Wash has fallen apart on more than one occasion with hickeys marking up his inner thighs, gotten hard in more than one shower, pressing against the dark marks with two fingers and remembering.

Soft suction, gentle teeth, and lazy kisses that leave him squirming, tossing his head in desperation. Tucker takes his sweet time about it, completely ignoring his flushed cock, hard and drooling onto his stomach now. Wash feels like a full-body throb of arousal and heat, like he’s being held together just as delicately as the lace around his wrists. Tucker keeps moving upward and inward, until his nose brushes the base of his cock, until he’s pressing sucking kisses against his balls, bringing first one than the other into his mouth with the most perfect suction. Wash feels his stomach twist in anticipation, in some anticipation-fear blend at the thought of finding his limit here, where he’s so sensitive, here where the knife’s edge of pleasure and pain is so thin.  

He sighs out when Tucker lets them slip out of his mouth, moves to sit up, and he isn’t sure if it’s relief or a small amount of disappointment.

Either way, the feeling doesn’t last. He's barely registered the strange plastic-y smell of the lube before Tucker’s slipping a lubed finger back behind his balls, and Wash cants his hips eagerly to make the angle easier. The noise he makes when Tucker pushes the first finger inside him anything but disappointed.

“Don’t come,” Tucker orders, and lowers his mouth onto Wash’s up-til-now untouched cock.

Wash’s world goes supernova. Everything is bright and wet and golden, melted butter good, hot and slick and thick, tight and soft, thrusting and stroking deep good places that light him up. Tucker’s tongue flickers against sensitive skin, toys with him, repeating over spots and patterns that make him cry out.   He doesn’t know how long Tucker sucks his cock, how long before he stretches around three. Honestly, it’s only probably due to Tucker’s hand tight around the base of his cock that he doesn’t come, but sooner or later Tucker brings him back down to earth.

Tucker pulls off of him with a filthy slurp, the sound of his fingers pulling out just as obscene.  Wash blinks sweat out of his eyes, look up to check the cuffs. They’re still intact, some of the stitching beginning to look strained and stretched out, but none of the fine mesh has split. Good. Good.

“Turn over,” Tucker orders, voice rough. He sounds almost as wrecked as Wash feels, and they’re nowhere near to done yet, Wash just knows. He moves to comply. “Hands and knees.”

His body falls easily into position, elbows taking his weight. Hard to believe not so terribly long ago he couldn’t have told you the last time he had sex; had wondered if that part of his life was just over and gone like so many other things. Maybe not so hard to believe. But now, this is easy, this feels natural as breathing, as waking with another body flush with his, as a hand cupping protectively over his implant scars.

Tucker bows over him, cock hot against the cleft of his ass, his cheek resting against Wash’s shoulder. Wash sighs under the weight of him and lets himself drift there, anchored and safe.

Tucker’s nuzzles against him, the prickle of his stubble against his skin bringing Wash up out of his almost-doze.

“God, the sounds you make,” Tucker sighs, “You drive me crazy. How do I ever let you out of bed in the morning?” His hips rock against Wash’s, the pressure almost-but-not-quite where he needs it. He thrusts again, lazy and unhurried, like he could just do this all night and Wash bites down on a whine. God, he wants that, wants Tucker inside him, fucking him, can’t think of anything else with Tucker so close, the smell of him everywhere. He arches into the next thrust, trying to encourage the angle in the right direction but Tucker just adjusts with him, keeps up that slow teasing slide. Is this how it’s going to go then? Trapping him in this suggestion, in this tease of what he wants until he can’t stand it? Until he finds his limit… Fuck, not even RTI was this bad—

Tucker hums, scrubs his cheek against Wash’s shoulder again… and then leans back, pulling away. He keeps his hands on Wash the whole time, probably the only reason Wash doesn’t sob for him to come back. He breathes through the sudden lack of contact, listens to the soft sounds of Tucker settling behind him.

His hands slide against his skin, curling around to frame Wash’s hips, his mouth lowering to his spine. He kisses his way down the vertebrae, open mouthed and worshipful. The saliva cooling on his skin gives him goosebumps even where his skin is still pink and radiating heat. Wash digs his fingers into the sheets. Down, down the line of his back Tucker kisses, stopping to linger at the base of his spine. Wash exhales shakily, trying to pull himself together, but never gets the chance.

Tucker’s mouth is back, warm and wet at top of his ass and Wash gasps soundlessly so hard it catches in his chest. His fingers tighten on Wash’s hips and then he’s running his teeth over the curve of Wash’s ass. Wash makes a strangled noise he’d be embarrassed about any other time and presses his forehead against the sheets when Tucker does it again, harder the second time and over the same skin.

He keeps going, not pausing until he’s paid attention to every square centimeter of skin and all the nerves are awake and alive. Only then does he take a moment to lean back and steady himself, taking a deep breath before he leans back in and bites. Wash groans, it starting deep in his chest and reverberating through him, liquid pleasure roaring through his veins. Wash ‘s cock twitches against his stomach, his stomach swoops dizzyingly at the rush of wanting. He tangles his fingers together to try and keep himself from yanking at the cuffs. _Wash, don’t break these._ He won’t, he won’t, he won’t—

Except Tucker keeps biting down, harder and harder and he isn’t letting go. Wash can’t control the squirming now, the clenching pain-pleasure spiraling through him and the only part of himself he can control anymore is his hands, don’t break these, don’t break these don’t break

Tucker finally lets go and Wash crumples against the bed. His abused nipples slide against the sheets feeling more like a flaming car skidding across the road.  But it’s not over, Tucker rubbing his cheek against the bite marks he left and then moving to the other side, teeth digging in, “Oh, god, Tu—“

He shakes and thrashes, his hands nearly vibrating and the only part of him remotely still. Tucker doesn’t let go, bites harder, merciless. Wash tries to muffle the noises falling out of him with his face pressed to the sheets but he can’t, can’t focus on anything but the path of Tucker’s mouth, hot soft-slick lips and insistent teeth, and the fragile lace around his wrists. Tucker alternates quick nips and long bites, varying placement and pressure in some pattern known only to himself, impossible to predict. Wash wants to tear his fingers through his own hair, wants to scream and fight his bonds and shake apart into a million pieces, beg for it to stop and beg him for more and he can’t do any of it, held in place by Tucker’s hands, by Tucker’s words, by the restrains around his wrists _don’t break these._ It burns, the pressure building inside him, a moment longer and he’ll overload, much more of this and he’ll fry his brain in his skull, he’ll burn up to ash.

“Y-yellow…” he whispers, breathless, and Tucker turns his last bite into a gentle, lingering kiss, his tongue soothing where his teeth had dug in.

Wash goes limp against the bed, head still spinning. His eyes are hot and wet in the corners. All of his bones are rubber and smoke, sinking him down through the floor and floating him clear to the sky even as the burning trails of lingering pain and pleasure continue to zing through his nervous system.

*

Tucker loves seeing him like this. Loves that _he_ made Wash look like this, feel like this.

His legs splayed obscenely, upper body collapsed against the sheets. Bruises and bite marks already darkening on the enflamed skin of his ass, on his inner thighs, on his neck. Wash’s eyes are shut tight, his mouth open and unself-conscious, head turned to the side and resting on his arms.  He looks completely and utterly fucked out, and he hasn’t even been fucked yet.

Vulnerable, and open and gorgeous. And only Tucker gets him this way.

Seeing Wash like this always makes something heady and possessive expand through his chest, filling him out to his fingertips. It reminds him of the first seconds after activating his sword, something bone-deep harmonizing with energy, filling him with power and stability.

“You still with me, Wash?” he whispers, running his hands up and down the backs of his thighs, careful to avoid the pink of sensitized skin. Wash nods blearily into the sheets, not opening his eyes yet. “Christ, dude, I can’t believe how much you took for me. You should see yourself right now. So fucking hot. You ready for the next part?” Another nod.

Tucker keeps a hand on him (he likes that, especially when he’s started to sink down into that place he goes when he lets Tucker do these kinds of things to him, when he wants to obey. He likes that physical reminder Tucker’s still there and the more Tucker thinks about that the more that strong feeling from before rises inside him, make him feel like he can leap tall buildings with a single bound, lift a base above his head, stop a speeding train with his hands) even as he gathers what he needs from the desk behind the bed. Keeps their thighs pressed together as he rolls the condom on and lubes himself up (and, fuck, he’s so hard, they’re both going to come so hard at the end of this holy fuck). Christ, his hand feels good, but he’s got Wash laid out and wanting in front of him and there’s really no contest there. He doesn’t drag out sliding two fingers inside Wash again, just a quick check to make sure he’s still ready and slick— he’s played enough with the teasing and dragging out the sensations today and he doesn’t think either one of them can really handle much more. Wash lets out a muffled broken sounding noise, almost as if in agreement. Tucker pulls his fingers free and lines himself up.

He bows over him again, one arm helping support his weight, the other wrapping around Wash (and maybe his hand ended up maybe sorta resting just over Wash’s heart, maybe it did, no one will believe that either of them are such big saps in the bedroom anyway so it doesn’t matter anyway and he’ll just let himself have this). He slides his cock between Wash’s cheeks again, against his hole, and Wash stirs underneath him almost like he’s coming awake and shivers.

“Tucker,” Wash rasps out, turning his head to watch him over his shoulder. It’s a tough angle (their respective heights not helping them out here) but Tucker absolutely has to lean forward and kiss him.

“I’m good,” Wash sighs when they pull away. His lips twitch. “Be better if you’d get to it already.”

Tucker snorts. But gets on with it.

They both gasp in tandem as Tucker rocks forward and finally, _finally_ , sinks inside him.

Tucker presses his forehead hard between Wash’s shoulder blades and just tries not to lose it right there. God, he’s _so tight—_ and— clenching around him as he shudders through the push. Tucker grits his teeth, trying desperately to remember why he shouldn’t pull back and just fuck and fuck and fuck back into him until both of them are screaming and falling apart and taking the universe with them. He had a plan, damn it. It was going to be so hot too, what was the plan?

He keeps it slow (if he speeds up now he’ll never _stop)_ until finally he bottoms out. Wash’s thighs shake, the constellations of freckles on them shuddering. Tucker curls his own toes into the sheets, forces himself to straighten back up, keeping his hips as still as possible.

And waits.

After long seconds pass and Tucker still hasn’t moved, buried inside him to the root and showing no signs of moving, Wash begins to squirm.

“Tucker,” Wash bites out, and the image of him struggles for control like this will keep Tucker warm through many a cold night he has to spend alone “Are you going to…?”

“Nope,” Tucker says, drinking in the tiny shifts and hitches of Wash’s hips, the way his hands start to twitch. “I’m not.”

“Tucker,” Wash groans, “What—“

“Fuck yourself on it,” he orders, something authoritative and heady spreading thick through him as he watches Wash pant helplessly into their sheets. “Go on. Show me how bad you want it.”

“Tucker,” Wash gasps. A pleading note has crept into his voice that on another day, were Tucker only aiming for begging, would mean victory. “ _Tucker_.” His hands fist and unclench around the handfuls of sheet he’s bunched up underneath them. The lace cuffs strain.

“Take it,” Tucker repeats. He slicks a hand up and down Wash’s back in encouragement but Wash only moans brokenly in reply. “Take what you want. This part’s all you, baby, whatever you want.”

“I want you to _fuck me.”_

“Then you have to show me,” Tucker insists. “Show me how you want it, how bad you want it, and I’ll fuck you, but you have to show me, Wash. Fuck yourself on my cock.”

“Please—“

Tucker shakes his head, unmoved and unmoving. And he isn’t going to.

“No. I’m not gonna move. If you want it, you got to take it. Or you’re not going to get it.”

It’s a bluff. It’s absolutely a bluff, with Wash shaking and clenching around him he’s not going to be able to keep himself from moving for much longer.

Wash tosses his head and moans in frustration, but he starts to move. He rocks, his movements faltering, like he can’t focus on what he needs to do. Tucker’s cock drags inside him, against his inner walls and Tucker closes his eyes and sighs into it. Just a small shift of friction, back and forth, but for the moment, it’s enough.

“There you go,” Tucker murmurs to him, slicking his hands up and down his back again. “Fuck, Wash, you feel so good, so tight. God, you’ve got me so hard, can you feel it? So hard just from watching you lose your mind, just watching you work yourself on my cock like this.”

Wash’s breath hitches. He moves with more confidence, hips rolling harder as he finds the right angles to make them both gasp and shudder, as he finds a rhythm.

“Oh, God,” he whispers, so quiet Tucker can barely hear him. “Ohh, _fuck_.”

His spine and the muscles in his back undulate, and Tucker knows without seeing his eyebrows are knit together in concentration. Every bit of that strong, skilled body focused on Tucker cock inside of him, on making them feel good, back and forth, back and forth.

Wash thrusts back hard, pushing his cock deep, deep as he can and just grinds there, hips circling. Tucker moans, hips straining forward despite what he said, flush against Wash’s ass and wanting deeper, closer. Wash shifts, knees digging in to the mattress, looking for leverage, and finds it.  

Wash drives his hips back, pace speeding up until he’s plunging Tucker’s cock inside him, harder and faster with each thrust.

“Yeah, go on, Wash,” he hisses through clenched teeth. It’s taking everything he has to keep still and just let Wash work himself on his cock. “Take it, fuck, yeah. Take it all, everything you want, holy fuck, look at you.”

Tucker watches him and keeps himself still, only holding on to Wash’s hips to steady him as he throws himself back again and again, spearing himself on his cock. He holds himself still until he thinks he’s about to pull a muscle from how the tension in his back and legs, until the rhythm of Wash’s body starts to falter and fall apart.

Wash whines low in his throat, frantically trying to maintain his pace. His head hangs on his neck, overwhelmed, as desperation starts to color his movements. Tucker adjusts his hold on Wash’s hips, and finally lets himself go. His hips piston forward to meet Wash’s thrust and keep going, picking up the rhythm and driving it harder, faster.

“So this is how you wanted me to fuck you,” Tucker pants. “This how you wanted it, Wash?”

Wash keens and cants his hips back against his thrusts.

“Yes, fuck—“ he cries out, “Tucker, yes, like this, just like this.”

“Okay, baby,” Tucker croons, “Okay, I’ll give it to you, I’ll take care of you. You done so good, did everything I asked. You just relax.”

Tucker’s thighs are burning with exertion and he doesn’t care. It’s all good, too good, too perfect. Wash shaking and moaning on his cock, tossing his head. He’s flying high on ecstasy, the smell of them, of sex filling the room, his nose and his lungs. He leans forward, manages to reach around to cup Wash’s cock up against his stomach, letting the rocking of their hips push him in and out of his grip.

“Tucker,” Wash groans, “Tucker-“

“Gonna come for me Wash?” Tucker asks, recognizing the signs in him. He’s fighting a losing battle here himself. “C’mon, Wash, I wanna see it. Wanna see you, feel you—“

Wash seizes up against him and comes, his whole body wracked in shudders as he pulses into Tucker’s hand. Tucker isn’t far after, vision going back with pleasure as he empties himself deep inside him. They stay like that for a moment, overcome and twitching with aftershocks.

Tucker blinks sweat out of his eyes as he comes back to himself. He pulls out with a wince and a noise of protest from Wash. He eases off the condom, ties it off and drops it into the wastebasket by the side of the bed (otherwise Wash will complain), all without having to pull completely away from Wash. He bends over the side of the bed, grabs a towel and the water bottle he’d left there earlier, and wipes Wash’s come from his hand. The water bottle is set at the foot of the bed; he’ll get back to that in a minute.

He stretches his body over Wash’s, braced on his elbows and knees, and kisses the side of his neck.

“You in there?” he murmurs. Wash nods, eyes still closed. “Let’s get you out of these and cleaned up.”

He sits up to uncuff Wash, but doesn’t bother untying the whole thing from the bedframe, just pushes it over the side and out of the way. He can deal with that part later. He massages his wrists, checking for damage, before moving up his arms and to his shoulders. Wash groans, but the base note of it is one of deep satisfaction and not pain, so Tucker lets it go. Gray eyes blink open to meet his, happy and sated.

“There you are.”

He gathers Wash up in his arms, pulling him close and letting him rest his head against his shoulder. They’ll get to the water part in a moment, once he’s started getting strings of words out of him.

“Fuck, Wash,” he murmurs, pressing gentle kisses to his forward. “The things you do to me.”

“Think I was the one getting things done to,” Wash mumbles into his chest, a puff of laughter against his collarbone.

They lie together for long moments, basking in the afterglow, kissing, and trading the water bottle between them. The sky is getting dark outside, grey light filtering in through the blinds.

“You know,” Wash says, finally. “I think I’ll tell Kimball we need to limit training sessions to twenty. More than that affects the quality of training I can give, really.”

Tucker hides his grin in Wash’s hair.

“You’re not subtle,” Wash adds, after a moment.

“I wasn’t trying to be!” Tucker protests. “I was trying to make you come screaming. Mission fuckin’ accomplished. Good job team, same time tomorrow?”

“Uh-huh,” Wash says, rolling his eyes. “Sure.”

He kisses Tucker again though. And he did mean it about the training sessions. He can take a hint, even one delivered in so Tucker a fashion.


End file.
